


A Meeting of Strangers

by Thistlerose



Series: Midnight Conversations [12]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Brothers, Gen, M/M, Not Quite Gen, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-12
Updated: 2013-04-12
Packaged: 2017-12-08 07:18:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/758606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thistlerose/pseuds/Thistlerose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's one thing when your friends and relatives tell you that you no longer have a brother.  It's another thing entirely when you and he meet face to face on a crowded platform.  Written in 2004.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Meeting of Strangers

It’s one thing to be told by your parents, your Aunt Malora, your cousins Bellatrix and Narcissa, and most of your friends, that your brother--your only brother--is now a stranger to you. It’s another thing entirely to run into your brother while waiting for a train, and to try and remember that this person who looks like you, from his coal-black hair to his big feet, is a stranger; someone you don’t know and must not speak to under any circumstances.

     It’s one thing when his friends look at you with loathing, and move slightly, so that they’re surrounding this stranger who used to be your brother, as though protecting him from you. It’s another thing entirely when he notices what they’re doing and looks up, and sees you, and his blue eyes--just a few shades lighter than your own--widen, and something behind them seems to crack and splinter. 

     You have a few options in situations like these. You can turn and walk away and pretend you never saw this person. This is the right thing to do, or so your parents, your aunt, your cousins, and your friends would tell you. You could also stand there, stupidly, your big feet rooted to the platform, and make meaningless, helpless faces, because whoever this person is now, you remember--you can’t help but remember--what he used to be. 

     It doesn’t help at all that he’s a lot thinner than he was the last time you saw him, the night he ran away (the night you sent the Crups after him). He seems lost in his new overcoat, and this should not bother you, but it does, as does the way his skin seems stretched tightly across his prominent cheekbones. His face is flushed, and there are shadows under his eyes. He looks as though he’s been ill. Very ill. 

     It’s one thing to wish a torrent of maladies and misfortunes upon the head of your debauched, depraved, and unrepentant bully of a sibling. It’s quite another to discover, after weeks of dreadful wondering, that a few of your darts struck home. 

     There’s nothing you can say, of course. Some things can not be taken back. Some things can never be forgiven. You are the youngest son of the noble and most ancient House of Black, and can never forget that. There is honour to maintain. Or so everyone tells you. Where this honour came from and what it means to have it are mysteries to you at the moment, but you are very young, and doubtless everything will make sense, with time. 

     This ache, which sharpens as the pale blue eyes of this person who used to be your brother frost over and become distant, will also ease with time. No one has told you this, because you have told no one about this particular ache, but you must believe it. 

     Because some things can never be mended, or forgotten. 

     Abruptly, the blue eyes flicker away from you, and it should be a relief, but it’s not. The eyes of his friends remain on you, the hazel ones openly hostile, the watery blue curious and a little frightened, the brown severely disappointed. 

     You turn and begin to walk away at this point, because it makes no sense for you to hurl yourself upon these daggers. These people no longer concern you. It’s cold out here on the platform, and you have a few minutes before the train arrives. Enough time to find some hot chocolate, and your own friends who will tell you that you did the right thing, which is what you need to hear, rather desperately, right now. 

     You’ve gone a little ways, when you hear the tap of running feet, behind you. You turn, thinking it’s Alan or Terrance or Rabastan, or Severus, but it’s none of these. It’s Remus Lupin, who, a moment ago, was looking at you with such frank reproof you thought you’d sicken. Remus Lupin, whom you once thought of as a friend. Remus Lupin, of the solemn brown eyes, the wry smile, the kind words, the sympathetic ear. The one responsible for your brother’s fall from grace. The seducer, the debaucher, the interloper, the spoiler. 

     You think these things as you look at him, and you see that he understands them, and accepts them, calmly. Then he brushes them all aside and says, as though this is the only thing that matters, “He almost died, Regulus.” You say nothing while he waits for a response, though Merlin only knows what your face betrays. 

     It’s one thing, of course, to tell yourself--as your parents, aunt, and cousins do--that your brother is dead in your eyes. It’s another thing entirely to learn you were very nearly the instrument of his very real death. 

     Lupin clearly finds your silence disconcerting. He says, his tone faltering slightly, “I just thought--you ought to know.” Then his eyes widen and you know there is someone behind you--a friend who will remove you from this situation, before you are forced to defend your actions. 

     “ _Almost_ died?” says Severus, incredulously. “Merlin, can’t Black do _anything_ right?” 

  
  
03/09/04


End file.
